Happiness
by teebeewrites
Summary: "Happiness would come, Harry thought, but at the moment it was muffled by exhaustion." Right after the Battle of Hogwarts. All Harry Potter wanted to do was to sleep and forget everything for a little while. But - maybe that's not what he needs.


_Happiness would come, Harry thought, but at the moment it was muffled by exhaustion._

He had given Ron and Hermione the slip, so great was his need to sleep. He didn't want to go back into the Great Hall and be everywhere all at once, sharing their victory and grief, however selfish that made him feel. Harry couldn't be the Boy Who Lived, the Chosen One, and all the other names they called him with sometimes-undeserved reverence right now. Harry just wanted to be Harry – and all Harry wanted to do was sleep.

Slipping away from the two after their visit to the headmaster's office was easy. Much easier than he expected considering that for the past few grueling months, they have been huddled inside a single tent together with little to no contact with anyone else – well, at least he had more with Hermione than with Ron. Harry found separating with them felt odd, almost – as if he had severed a limb, or lost his wand forever. But then he thought that maybe after all this time, they finally wanted a breather from him. Amidst the earlier chaos, hadn't he seen them kiss? The memory of it sent something unpleasant bubbling over his overpowering exhaustion that he immediately quelled down.

'How selfish I am, really,' Harry thought, 'if I couldn't just be happy for my two best mates.' And they deserved happiness, more than anyone. But were they happy, right this instant? Ron had just lost his brother –

Harry stopped. He didn't want to think about Fred right now because thinking of him made him think of Lupin and Tonks too, and the very peaks of a momentous pain were breaking through the fog of his fatigue, sharp and grating. He didn't want to feel his loss for now – there was a time for that. All he wanted right now was to rest. The more time ticked by, the wearier he felt and by the time he reached the Gryffindor Tower, he felt like he would fall over. His bones ached, his muscles screamed, and the thought of sleep sounded like heaven, even if the sun was up and bright, streaming in from the large windows.

Stepping into the portrait hole gave Harry such a strong sense of nostalgia it almost toppled him over. Miraculously, the battle had not reached the tower and everything was it was had it been an ordinary day. If not for the cold hearth, Harry would have thought he had just come from any one of his classes. Books were strewn over the low tables in front of overstuffed maroon armchairs and someone had even left a set of wizard's chess ("are you going to play us or what?" the knight called after him). He debated going up the tower and into dormitories, wondering if he still had a bed since technically he wasn't a student this year. Harry was still pondering on it when the portrait hole opened again. He whirled around, wand out and heart pounding, and faced an equally shocked Hermione, whose brown eyes were so wide, wand trembling in her hands.

"Harry!" she said in hysterical relief. She clutched her chest and heaved, "oh good, it's you!"

Harry lowered his wand and glowered at her. His heart was still pounding loudly, blood rushing to his ears. "What the hell, Hermione! I was about to curse you into oblivion! What in the bloody hell are you doing here anyway?"

"I – I –,"

"Were you looking for me?" Harry asked irritably. "Is that why you're here?" He didn't mean to go off on her; he didn't want to, truly, but he was still reeling from the pounding shock and fear that sent him on edge when she entered the common room – that, and the fact that he just bloody wanted to be alone for a minute.

"No! I wasn't, I swear," Hermione said hotly, "I didn't even think anybody would be here. I just –," she trailed off and looked down at her muddy sneakers. Hermione was a mess. Her brown hair tumbled past her shoulders, longer and wilder than Harry had ever seen it. She was in muggle clothing – a dusty rose-colored hoodie beneath a soot-covered denim jacket and worn out jeans that were stained with ash and blood. She absently fingered a rip in her sleeves, avoiding Harry's eyes, and Harry felt his irritation instantly melt away, replaced by an odd fluttering of affection. There was no reason to be angry with Hermione, even if she happened to be looking for him. Harry reminded himself that if it weren't for them, he'd not be here alive anyway – he owed them everything. He owed _her_ everything and more because hadn't she been the most patient with him?

"I'm sorry, Harry. I'll just –," her hand went up to the general direction of the portrait hole but Harry crossed the room in quick purposeful strides and grasped her wrists.

"No," he began, "no, I'm sorry, Hermione. I've got no right to go mental on you."

Hermione gave a soft chuckle, grasping Harry's hand. "Oh, I think you do. You've been through enough tonight," she said with a bright smile. They stood in silence for a while, and despite Harry's weariness, he felt a thrill of happiness – of victory – remembering that finally – _finally_ – Lord Voldemort was dead. He couldn't help it; Harry smiled back at her almost sheepishly.

"I knew you could do it. I knew you'd win," Hermione said, the hold she had of his hand tightening. Harry felt warm at her words, felt the tips of his ears burn up, even if he had heard a lot of versions of her words uttered to him today. Somehow, Harry realized it meant more to him coming from Hermione, who had been there for him, unwavering in her loyalty. It meant more coming from her, who had _chosen_ him –

Harry thought back on Hermione and Ron's kiss again, how they clutched each other in a quick almost desperate sweep, and thought, 'Well, she hadn't really chosen me, right?'

He felt irritated again – not in the way he had felt earlier, when he witnessed them lock lips and associated his subsequent annoyance to the fact that it wasn't the right time to assert their love lives (they were, after all, in the middle of an important battle), but in a different way he was almost unfamiliar with.

But then he remembered how he used to feel when he saw Ginny and Dean all the way back in his sixth year. He almost laughed out loud at how familiar it was – and ridiculous, too. Sixth year had been such a long time ago – a lifetime, quite literally – and feeling so right now seemed so absurd to Harry, almost childish really, but there he was, feeling like how he did. It was so uncalled for, so sudden, and so unexpected.

Harry stepped away from Hermione and she followed him with her bewildered stare. Harry scratched the back of his neck awkwardly.

"I thought you'd be with Ron right now," he said to her, not quite meeting her eyes. Hermione was silent for a while, blinking, as if unable to comprehend why she'd be with Ron right now instead of him.

"Oh," she said finally, "well, I know he needs to be with his family first right now." The loss of Fred Weasley hung over the two of them like some great weight so heavy it felt almost suffocating. Hermione seemed to deflate after that, staggering to a couch nearest to her, with her shoulders hunched and eyes troubled. Harry sat down beside her, his shoulder and knee almost touching hers, not knowing what else to do. It seemed almost funny to Harry that they were seated there, covered in soot and almost awkward, seeing how they had spent majority of the year with only each other as company. And when it mattered most, it seemed that they both didn't know what to say.

"Is that awfully bad of me," Hermione asked softly, brows furrowed, "that I wanted to be away from Ron at a time like this?" her brows were furrowed, eyes clouded with emotion, so full of doubt and misery that she hardly noticed Harry's awkwardness.

"I mean, I know I should be a good –," she paused and Harry waited with baited breath, "friend. I need to be a good friend to him and be there for him, shouldn't I?"

Harry opened his mouth to reply but it seemed that Hermione wasn't looking for one. She took a quick, deep breath and put her head on her hands. "It's just – I can't take it! It's just too much. Is that bad of me, Harry?" she turned to him with pained eyes, almost imploring him to disagree. She had a small cut just above her eyebrow and another at the tip of her lips, which were pulled down into a frown. Harry sighed and put an arm lightly around her shoulders.

"Of course not," he said quickly, softly, "hey, of course not, Hermione. You're only human." And wasn't that the exact same thing Harry was doing right now, taking a breather from everything? Hermione took a shaky breath and brushed away some errant tears.

"After everything we've been through, you'd think I'd be much stronger than this," she said with a short laugh that almost sounded like a sob. Harry tightened his grip on her, noting how thin she had become under the bulk of her clothes.

"Hey," Harry began, "you're the strongest person I know. I probably wouldn't be alive if it weren't for you." He ended it with a small chuckle, thinking that Hermione would find it funny, too, but she just gave a sad smile and clasped his hand.

"You didn't need me," she said, "you could've done this on your own. I believe it."

There it was again, that warm feeling creeping up his neck, filling his cheeks, and almost overpowering his weariness. Harry wanted to say something, say how much she meant to his victory – their victory – and say how eternally grateful he was to her. Harry Potter might have been the Chosen One but he was nothing without Hermione Granger. He was about to tell her that too, because he knew she needed to hear it now more than ever, but Hermione had glanced at him just as he opened his lips to say something and the words he had carefully selected seemed to have evaporated on the tip of his tongue. There was something mesmerizing about her brown eyes, round and bright and almost golden, and Harry thought about Hermione and Ron's kiss again – this time not with annoyance but with curiosity. Harry wondered how it felt to be Ron at that moment, eyes glancing down to Hermione's lips.

"I think," Hermione began in a whisper, voice cracking, "if you wanted to be alone, I could – I could go," she ended this as a question but even as she said so, she seemed to lean in subtly towards him. Harry's eyes didn't move from her lips. He swallowed and said, "If you want to be with Ron right now then that's fine."

He needed rest, Harry convinced himself, and he wanted sleep. But his earlier tiredness and need for solitude, the very things that had sent him up here in the first place, seemed to have vanished – at least for the time being, with Hermione's breath warm against his cheek.

Hermione didn't move, didn't even shift from her seat, and didn't disentangle her fingers from his. Harry felt a thrill of elation – perhaps selfishly but he found he couldn't care enough – and thought, 'she's choosing me right now.'

Hermione's lips felt heavenly beneath his, soft and warm if not a little chapped. Harry felt her gasp against him as he moved in closer to her, tightening his grasp on her hands and pulling her in slightly. She didn't react at first, but instead sat perfectly still beside him. He pressed his lips against her again and pulled away slightly, suddenly embarrassed.

"Er –," Harry had meant to apologize. How could he have been so stupid, so carried away by some fleeting affection he felt towards her. But it wasn't really fleeting, really, now that he thought about it. The fluttering inside him didn't seem to quell or go away, even the slightest. In fact, even as he sat now quite mortified in front of Hermione, his newfound feelings seem to grow even stronger, as if they had found a crack on the room he had been keeping them shut in and was steadily bursting forth. Harry found he liked to be able to kiss Hermione – he found he liked it a lot – even if she didn't. So Harry made to apologize, already in the process of disentangling his hands from hers, but Hermione held on, eyes now glazed over with something he didn't quite recognize.

"Hermione –,"

Hermione was the one who swept in next, quick and smooth, almost desperately and yet still tenderly. She grasped Harry's shoulder with one hand, the other settling on top of his chest, just beneath his wildly beating heart. Hermione's had felt heavenly beneath his lips when he kissed her, but being kissed by her was another thing altogether. She shifted in her seat, turning her body towards him and angling her head. Harry's mind was reeling, hardly ever believing this was happening. He responded to her surprising bout of enthusiasm by snaking his arms around her small waist, pulling her flush against him. He cradled her face with one hand, fingertips brushing the underside of her jaw and Hermione gave a soft sigh. Harry ran his tongue almost unsurely over her lips and with another sigh, she parted them and Harry felt a whole new high when their tongues finally touched.

Harry's other hand found the sliver of skin between her jeans and jacket and it felt smooth and creamy beneath his calloused fingertips. Hermione gasped at the contact, eyes shut closed, as her fists closed in on the fabric of his shirt. Harry moved away from her lips and travelled down her jaw and neck, settling at the smooth crevice where her neck met her shoulders. Harry gave it a small suck and Hermione practically melted into him.

"Oh, Harry," she breathed and Harry felt his hairs rising pleasantly.

With hands slightly shaking, Harry moved to slide Hermione's jacket off her shoulders. Hermione broke off from his lips and shrugged the denim thing off completely, smiling shyly as she rubbed her arms consciously. Harry noted how fragile she seemed, with her rose-colored hoodie now a few sizes too big for her and engulfing her almost completely. Her collarbone peeked out, pale as the moon and while normally it might have worried him how much Hermione looked like she needed a big meal, right now all he could think about that despite this – wild hair, soot-smudged cheek, and cut lip – she was absolutely radiant.

He ghosted his thumb over her lips, stopping tentatively over that small almost unnoticeable cut and watched in fascination as her eyes fluttered close, her breath warm as she sighed.

Hermione's hands felt almost unsure as she slid his own jacket from his shoulder. Harry shivered slightly as her dainty hands brushed against the fabric of his thin shirt and down his bare arms. His heart pounded wildly, earlier exhaustion forgotten quite completely, as his lips sought hers once again. It was such a delicious feeling, one that he was now growing delightedly familiar with, and in the haze of battling tongues and teeth grazing lips, Harry wondered how he could have known her for seven years and not have kissed her even once.

The rest of the clothes were shed in an unceremonious tangle of arms and lips – trousers, shirts, and socks – and with faces flushed and mouths agape, their eyes roamed at each other for the first time, hands clutching at bare waists and chests heaving with excitement. Living alone with Hermione in a little tent in the middle of nowhere had shown Harry a sliver of skin here and there. It was inevitable when you were living in such a cramped place, more worried about survival and looking over your shoulders than modesty. But seeing her now, clad only in a white bra and bright red knickers, brown eyes bright as she stared expectantly back at him, was a completely different thing – something Harry figured he would not be able to forget no matter how hard he tried.

 _She's like a sister to me_ , Harry had once said– to Ron, no less – and at that time, he believed it as much as the redhead boy did. He had thought back on the images of Hermione and him that the horcrux conjured, shuddering unpleasantly at the sudden curiosity that gripped him then, quelling it quite effectively as soon as it came. Hermione is like a sister, he had said to himself resolutely before uttering it out loud for Ron's sake, who had looked so angry he was almost as red as his hair. But now inside this abandoned common room with the yellow morning light pouring in from the tower's windows, Hermione rested a delicate hand on top of his bare chest, sliding closer ever so slightly, the lace of her red knickers tickling the skin above the waistband of his boxers, blood rushing south in a most unsibling-like manner, Harry knew he was lying even back then in that frost-covered forest – Hermione is and never was like a sister to him.

He'd never imagined that he would want Hermione the way – and just how much – he does right now, but now that he was here he'd have thought it would've happened in a sunlit room where they could see the sea, or that there would be all that cheesy things they'd talk about in those soap operas Aunt Petunia used to watch on the telly, or that'd they even be in bed somewhere private, at the very least, and not in a place where anyone could've walked in. But all they had was this moment, cramped in an overstuffed maroon couch, Harry's arm gripping the armrest tightly and Hermione's leg dangling to the floor as she spread her legs, inside a circular room with a cold empty hearth and a pile of books owned by some bloke by their heads, lips attached and limbs tangled in a way it was hard to tell whose is whose, feeling –

Harry hadn't decided yet how this made him feel. Of each kiss he was sure of, that much he knew. Of each trembling touch, no matter how fumbling it was, Harry was sure.

Hermione's nod was almost imperceptible but Harry felt it in the way her hair shifted, the way her lips brushed against the side of his neck, and Harry hooked a finger around the thin waistband of her knickers, breath hitching as he glided it down her legs and then she was there – bare against his straining boxers, hot in a way that made him groan audibly against her neck. Harry had to smirk when Hermione's palm purposely rub him as she dragged his boxers down and he felt her answering smile in her lips just below his ear.

Being inside Hermione was nothing like anything Harry had ever felt, so overwhelming that he had to brace his arms against the armrest as a pleasurable shudder coursed through him. Though Hermione's answering gasp told him than he should have been slower, gentler.

"Sorry," Harry breathed with an awkward sort of airy chuckle and Hermione responded with a small 'hmm' and fingers digging into his shoulders, hips rising to meet his.

It was a jumble of 'ow's and 'er's and awkward breathy giggles at first, Harry's hand settling awkwardly first by the side of her breasts, then on her waist, and then by the crook of her neck, her curls squashed beneath his palms, but with a few deep thrusts they seemed to have found a rhythm – one that was accompanied by low, pleasured moans pouring out from mouths slightly agape.

Harry's mouth found Hermione neck again, latching on with little sucks and kisses that made her break out in breathy gasps. He worked his way up, nipping at the crook of her neck, moving up and ending just below her ear. He realized he never wanted this to end – this warmth, this bliss – but it was too much right now. With a loud moan, he spilled into her, hot and quick, as he felt her walls contract around him.

The silence that followed as their moans quieted down was heavy but not necessarily uncomfortable. Harry moved slightly to his right, shifting his weight to his right arm and looked down at Hermione. Her bare breasts moved up and down, flushed pink as she struggled to catch her breath. Her hair was even wilder, spilling over the edges of the couch in untamed curls. And her eyes were wide and bright and undeniably happy.

"Er – hey," Harry breathed, tucking a stray strand of brown hair behind her ear. Hermione blinked, her brows dipping slightly and her nose scrunching, but her red lips, swollen and thoroughly kissed, curled upwards.

"Hey," she replied, her voice a whisper.

And Hermione broke into a fit of giggles, loud and clear that shattered the silence that seemed to hang in the air. She laughed and the common room looked less abandoned, less in disarray, and much like the way Harry had always felt it had been to him – a home. The muted morning light looked brighter and the dust motes floating around them looked like stardust.

Hermione laughed, her thin arms wrapping around Harry's neck, tears of mirth flowing from her eyes, and Harry knew he had not seen anything more beautiful.

Hermione giggled and Harry laughed with her, feeling that he didn't need that rest after all. He didn't feel the pain, or the guilt, or that powerful surge of victory, even.

Harry felt that for now, as he rested his hands on Hermione's waist and felt the steady thudding of her heart against his bare chest, it was enough and nothing else mattered.

Happiness had come.

* * *

A/N: Man! I couldn't be back attempting to write fan fiction without paying homage to the one and only fandom and the OTP that started me down the path of becoming a writer now, could I? It's been ten long years or and I still believe in Harry and Hermione. That's dedication, people!

I'm sorry for any grammatical errors. I've had a glass of wine - or two - while writing this and didn't get to proofread it as thoroughly as I would've wanted. And if there are any inconsistencies with the book I do apologize. It's been a few months since I reread Deathly Hallows and I'm afraid I might have missed a few details. But other than that, I hope you liked it! I haven't written in a while, clearly - and my smut-writing skills are definitely rusty from disuse. Hope I'll get to write more soon!

Cheers!


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